


Your Job Won't Take Care of You

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: Savor The Suffering [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Abduction, Brotp, Caring Sherlock, Coughing, Epic Friendship, Fever, Fluff and Mush, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Home remedies, Influenza, Misery, Napping, Nausea, Sick at Work, Sick!Lestrade, Sickfic, Sleep Deprivation, Sneezing, Sorry Not Sorry, Tea, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Greg Lestrade awoke at 2:23 in the morning with an ache centered right where the bridge of his nose started...<em></em></em>
</p><p>Sherlock tells Lestrade in no uncertain terms that he's sick, Lestrade doesn't want to acknowledge that he's sick, and Sherlock decides that's a good reason to abduct him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Job Won't Take Care of You

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to my characters (well, they're Sir ACD's characters but you know what I mean), but when I get sick they get sick. :/

Greg Lestrade awoke at 2:23 in the morning with an ache centered right where the bridge of his nose started. Groggily he lifted a hand to rub at it and then reheard the noise that had woken him in the first place. His phone was ringing, and the only sorry bugger who would call at such a time was…

Fumbling in the darkness, Lestrade shoved his phone to his ear, asking in a voice edged in fatigue, “Whaddya want, Sherlock?”

“ _I need you to make an arrest_ ,” Sherlock replied calmly over faint sounds of grunting in the background.

“M’kay,” Lestrade yawned, stumbling to his feet. He knew better than to argue at the moment; if he hung up, Sherlock would just keep calling until he came.

It was eight o’clock now and Lestrade greatly regretted his decision. He should have muted his phone; he should have chucked it out the window, because sleep deprivation wasn’t even the worst of his ailments. Sliding his cup of coffee onto the desk in front of him, Lestrade bit back bitter disappointment and nausea, staring at the label on the side without seeing it. Leaning back in his chair, he let himself drift as far as he could into oblivion without losing _all_ his awareness.

“You okay, boss?” Donovan asked, making him jerk upright, his head swimming.

“No,” Lestrade answered honestly, self-pity leaking through as hard as he fought against it. “I just sneezed in my coffee.” And he’d been greatly looking forward to said coffee, as he’d hoped it could soothe the raw sting in his chest.

Donovan’s eyebrows went up and she approached, studying him more closely. “You do look a little peaky.”

“Ugh, I’m…just tired,” Lestrade decided. “I had to get up early this morning.”

Donovan’s face twisted. “Yeah, I heard the freak woke you up at 2:30.”

“How’d you hear that?”

“He told me, thought it was some great accomplishment.” Shaking her head, Donovan swapped the ruined cup of coffee for a case file and Lestrade resigned himself to it.

The next thing he knew was a hand on the back of his neck, startling him awake with a congested groan.

“Sleeping on the job, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, but his tone lacked most of the usual smugness. “Discomfort in the chest, sore throat, headache, fatigue, temperature of 38.9.”

Lestrade glared miserably up at him. “How d’you…?” He didn’t bother finishing the familiar question.

“Your tie is loosened so you can breathe more easily—chest pain; your voice is thick and grates on the ears—sore throat; I just took your temperature, and the fatigue is obvious—you were out cold. However, I’ve seen you sleep in your office before—you rarely put your head on your arms but you did this time, meaning you thought your head wouldn’t be comfortable on any other surface. Headache, most likely,” Sherlock concluded. That smugness was back.

Lestrade blinked glassily and then dropped his head back onto his arms, nuzzling his face into the crook of his elbow to break his veil of sweat. “Leave me alone, Sherlock…”

He could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes above him and then the consulting detective moved away from his side, much to Lestrade’s relief. It was short-lived, replaced with panic as his chair suddenly began sliding out from under him. Sherlock took its place, holding him up, but Lestrade thrashed against him.

“What do you think you’re doing, you bloody—!” Lestrade coughed harshly and felt like he’d been stabbed for it. He held up a weak hand, because he wasn't done talking, bugger it, he just needed a moment. He coughed again, but there was nothing in his airway to dislodge. He just couldn't take in enough air; his lungs seemed like they were trying to twist inside-out.

“Shut up and breathe,” Sherlock ordered.

“What are you doing?!” Anderson demanded from the doorway.

“DI Lestrade is taking a sick day,” Sherlock announced cheerfully.

“I could charge—Assault—Arrest your stupid—” Lestrade couldn’t seem to finish his sentences and as he found the scenery changing from his office to the hallway to the exit, he decided not to even start them. Only when he was being wedged into a cab with Sherlock following did Lestrade try to speak again.

“Where’re we…?”

“Baker Street,” Sherlock replied as though it were the obvious choice.

“But _my_ flat…”

“Do try to finish your sentences, Lestrade; your education suits you ill if you don’t.”

Did he mean that as a pun? Leaning his head against the window, Lestrade closed his eyes and tried to relax, but the sway of the taxi as it turned was butchering his stomach. He was seriously considering throwing himself out of the car, but they arrived at their destination just in time.

The stairs of 221B were even worse than the cab; they seemed to spiral on forever, but at last they reached Sherlock and John’s messy living room. Sherlock twirled Lestrade in a circle, peeling his coat off the other way, before lowering him onto the couch and pulling his legs up after him so he was horizontal. Lestrade flopped his arm over his eyes and sighed faintly.

“Isn’t that better?” Sherlock asked, another rhetorical question that John seemed fond of asking his patients.

“Yeh,” Lestrade admitted in a creaky whisper. “I’ll…be fine.”

Now that Lestrade wasn’t looking back at him, Sherlock leaned in, reading him.

“You haven’t eaten today, have you?”

“Nope.” Sherlock was vaguely disappointed that Lestrade didn’t ask how he knew, but he threw Lestrade’s coat over its owner and plodded toward his chair, sinking into it.

“Sherlock, you were making quite a ruckus on the stairs,” Mrs. Hudson remarked as she entered the room. “Oh! Hello, dear,” she greeted Lestrade, who didn’t move his arm but wiggled his fingers in a pitiful wave.

“Make tea,” Sherlock ordered, pointing at her with an authoritative finger. “Lestrade has influenza.”

Mrs. Hudson obediently scuttled off to the kitchen and Sherlock was satisfied, returning his attention to his houseguest. He watched him with a critical eye until Mrs. Hudson produced a cup of ginger tea and honey. Snatching it from her, he waved it over Lestrade’s face, a bit of it slopping over the side and splashing on him.

“Thanks,” Lestrade croaked out as he struggled into a near-upright position and relieved Sherlock of the cup.

“Drink it all,” Sherlock told him, kneeling next to his charge’s head to let him know he wouldn’t leave until the cup was empty.

“Yes, sir,” Lestrade muttered, some of his usual sarcasm reassuring Sherlock’s faint tingle of worry.

Several sips later, more than half the tea was gone, but Lestrade stiffened suddenly, shoving the cup at Sherlock and pressing a hand over his mouth. “Toilet,” he choked out.

“You’re almost finished,” Sherlock said impatiently, trying to push it back at him.

“Please!” Lestrade flailed out from under the coat, fast-crawled over Sherlock and down the hall. His worry tingle bolstering, Sherlock rose to his feet and followed Lestrade’s path. The door to the loo was only halfway shut; when the sounds of retching ceased, Sherlock eased it open just enough to peer inside.

Lestrade was now sitting on the floor, wedged into the corner between the wall and the tub, knees pulled up to his chest. If it was possible, he looked worse than before, sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead, after-purge chills wracking his body.

“Now just imagine how embarrassing that would have been had you been in your office,” Sherlock reminded him sagely as he approached. Lestrade glanced up at him, dark eyes glittering feverishly in his colorless face.

“You don’t have t-to f-follow me everywhere,” he hissed, obviously trying to muster some of his pride. Sherlock only raised his eyebrows.

“I highly doubt you’re strong enough to get up on your own, Grant.”

“ _Greg!_ ” Lestrade whined.

“Yes, that. Like I said, you won’t be getting up on your own, but if you want to end up collapsing and concussing yourself on either the toilet, the bathtub, or the edge of the sink by trying, I can’t stop you.” Sherlock knew he was being overly condescending, but it seemed to do the trick.

“Fine,” Lestrade whispered dejectedly, stretching out a hand for assistance. Sherlock smoothed out his smirk and accepted the hand, helping Lestrade hobble back to the couch.

“Now,” Sherlock concluded, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “What will we do until the resident doctor gets home from work?”

“Nothing,” Lestrade answered promptly. “I’m taking a sick day.” With that he turned his back on the surprised consulting detective, pulled his coat over his shoulder and fell asleep.


End file.
